


What Do You Do?

by goldfishcrackers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, poorly-alluded to masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:03:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishcrackers/pseuds/goldfishcrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's muses about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do You Do?

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic, and you know... writing these characters is terribly nerve-wracking so I'm sorry in advance for John's OOC poetic musings. Non-beta'd so all mistakes and redundancies are mine.

What do you do when he stares at you? Icy blue-grey eyes, piercing that wall that is supposed to shield you from others; shield and protect your innermost secrets; only indulged in the few that you can judge to trust. His gaze is almost overwhelming; it is almost palpable, tangible in the cold air of the flat. He refuses to throw logs on the fire or turn the heat on despite the persistent, yet gentle, inclinations of the kindly old landlady. These are not long gazes, but a rare flicker of the eyes from the desk piled with gigantic heaps of paper, folders, bits and pieces of other people's lives. But these flickers, these glances, these mere moments of time burn a hole in your body, regardless if that is their intention or not.

I sit here, pretending to read the paper, trying to ignore that penetrative gaze. Cough quietly and cross my legs. I can feel the heat, the brutal chill, of that stare at my movements. I frown and he cannot see, but see he does. His ever-shifting mental catalogue has every detail about you, down to the tiniest scratch on your inner thigh from a rough night from particular, erm, ministrations.

What do you do when he speaks? Deep velvety tones that enrich the very air you breathe and thrum their eyes down your ear canal to lazily swim through your neurons, a treasured sound to be stored until later that night, when you are writhing silently to the ministrations of your own hands. He knows what you do, but not whom you think of. He does not acknowledge the information that his ever-observant brain has helpfully (or unhelpfully as he judges) supplies about you. You are a base upon which others are to be judged upon. A stock, if you will.

This voice is the very sound of the Argonaut's downfall. Creating my downfall, this voice of a seductive mermaid inhabiting the body of a 21st century consulting detective enchants my ear. These tones, soft, subtle, harsh, and jarring, all in one, and yet more separate than the planets in the solar system (a thing he claims he does not need to learn, and so irrevocably disproved in the past). He could be a cat, something with large claws and bright eyes and the sharpest of teeth, but with the voice that could lull you into a dreamless sleep forever. The voice alone could be my one and only sustenance. I much prefer the voice to the face, eyes, body, and hair. It haunts my dreams at night and my reality in the day. It is present in every moment of every day of my life. The template of how a voice of an angel, a devil would sound scatters through my mind at the sound of that infuriating voice.

When he speaks, my stomach clenches slightly, responding guiltily to secret thoughts, desires, and wants. Cable-knit jumpers are wonderfully thick and secretive and protect those small twitches from his ever-watching eyes.

What do you do when he listens to you? When his gaze is focused on you and you solely, even if his thoughts aren't? It's like being under the beloved microscope of this high-functioning sociopath. Your words hum into the air, some catching his attention, triggering deductions faster than the speed of light, others being discarded and cut away like fat from a choice bit of meat.

His attention is something to be treasured. Most are looked over as insignificant, not worthy to enter that wonderful mind palace of his. They are insects in a world of giants, brilliant giants. That attention is cocaine; something you do not want, but once you get it, you want it forever. Your body aches for it, your mind babbles for it, and your fingers, oh, God, your fingers. They want to dig themselves into that attention and pull, tug, grasp, for eternity, demanding all of it. You will take nothing less than all of it in its entirety, but accept the tidbits thrown your way. Bloody hell, it's more than anyone else gets, I should be happy. Satisfied? No. Not in the least.

What do you do when he touches you? It's shocking down to your core. This alabaster statue of inhuman perfection is an idol to be worshipped, not to be touched. But of, course, I want more. More than he's willing/comfortable/able to give. They are chaste touches: a finger on the hand or shoulder to alert you to a particularly interesting particle of information; a hand on your back to steer you in the right direction; a rare grasp of your face with both hands to dig, scrape, smash information out of your poor, dull head. But these are more than I can take. More than what anyone should be able to take. That I would be one of the few to receive these impersonal, but personal, touches makes me arrogant. I am one of the few; the chosen one, in melodramatic terms.

These touches could drive a sane man, one significantly saner than I, insane. They drive you to the brink, although they are not meant as such for he is unblemished, pure, and back again. This tango makes you dizzy and full to bursting with a horrid want/need to maim, lash out, and break just to release this energy. In these times of near-insanity, I am grateful for the cases: an outlet for this whirlwind of boundless, irritable vitality. Butterfly caresses that are intended for flags, instead become whips, chains, shackles, upon which to bind you with so you are stuck, forever in his grasp, forever close at hand to be called on at a moment's notice. I think he does this unconsciously, this binding, bonding, enslavement.

What do you do when he smells you? He knows which shampoos you use, which colognes you wear, the deodorants, toothpastes, gum (if you want it), etc. you are partial to. He knows it all and when you deviate from the usual path, he questions, prods, pokes until he has a satisfactory answer which ends with my ears burning from irritation/borderline anger and him smug as a cat with a saucer full of cream.

This mental catalogue of his, it rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it is because I want it to rub me the right wa- No. Private thoughts are supposed to be private and not available for outside access. It is at these times when I am grateful for cable-knit sweaters. It is more difficult to hear your heart thump wildly as if you were running from your death, which in this case, you just might be.

What would you do if he wanted to taste you? No. I cannot go down that path. Not now, as he watches me type away furiously at the keyboard, a mug of tea in his hand and body draped in a single white sheet. Fitting clothing, a white sheet, for the virginal man who is able to undress people and see your most protected secrets with a mere glance of the eyes.

What would I do if he reciprocated these thoughts? And if he didn't? If you revealed everything, confirmed every suspicion, contradicted your own indignant statements of heterosexuality and he refusing it? I would die. Or try to, at least. I could never leave this man alone. Even if my life depended on it, I could never leave him by himself. He needs his blogger to document his brilliance and offer glimpses of his even more brilliant mind to the outside world, a place he does not belong. And as he needs his blogger, I need my consulting detective.


End file.
